


Good Omens: Three Devils in Mexico.

by Sophie_Tailor



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dramatic, Fanfiction, Fantasy, Horror, Other, Spin Off
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25307314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophie_Tailor/pseuds/Sophie_Tailor
Summary: (Fan Spin-off/Prequel of Good Omens. The story distances itself from the plot of the original book and show about Crowley and Aziraphale, while still taking place in the same universe.)Premise:Year 1976.Three Princes of Hell:the indolent Belphegor, the diligent Mammon and the subtle Asmodeus.Three Archangels: Zerachiel, composed and quiet, Raguel, warm and benevolent, and Jophiel, quick and objective.An old gentleman "occult whisper", his acquired pupil, a pastry chef, a young man who tries to put a stained past behind him, two orphans and their uncle indoctrinated in a rigorous religious mentality.All of them will more or less meet in a series of events that jump from France to Mexico, in an attempt to thwart a threat triggered by the three Mighty Beasts, that seems to wobble the truce between Hell and Heaven that must remain unchanged until the time of the Apocalypse.
Kudos: 1





	1. Prologue: It has started with a false prophet and an improvised poultry woman..

2 July 1566:

Michel was wandering along the damp earthy path, sorrounded by the quiet growing darkness of the evening.  
The pinkish sky was increasingly turning dark blue, while a sharp and icy breeze began to blow maliciously, intent to unsettle any person who dared not to stay inside. Walking that night was especially hard on a person that was reduced to precarious health such as our Michel.  
A man of barely sixty-three years of age, but in bad shape, because of the hygienic conditions that characterized his style of living. The gout was gripping him hard and uncomfortable bubos were festering all over his body.  
The man was in constant pain, signaling that death was unfortunately imminent for him.  
He was approaching old age,  
so he could afford to play the classic wise man who knew many secret things, when in reality that little bit of superior truth that he possessed had cost him dearly.  
The thick, long and forked white beard dangled under his chin as the man continued on his way, contemplating the bushy flora flanking the street. From there his gaze went over to the most luscious forest, with its dark colors protecting the stealthy creatures.  
Right there Michel decided to go:  
earlier that day he had left his home and, sensing a gut feeling, he warned his secretary Chavigny to not follow him or go looking for him, because he probably would have not remained alive by dawn.

Now, Michel had so many gut feelings during his life, whether they were daydreams or hypothetical premonitory sensations or simple warnings to expel undesired remains and blow the wind on the mountains, he had; of course:  
he was Michel Nostradamus.

He had a reputation as a prophet of events that could be more or less truthful, depending on the elaboration of his intuition, and a pinch of fortuitous coincidence. Many French people, some patently, others secretly in order to avoid the risk of complaints of heresy, anchored their fate to the next prediction that Mr. Nostradamus uttered, almost as if they saw him as a Messiah.

But you know, there are only Christ and the Antichrist as Messiahs, and Michel is neither one of them.  
Indeed, he is practically a joke in comparison.

And this is probably how the skeptics saw him: like a pagan in false guise who divine utopian and often distant future in vague ways. This may have injected a thread of fear into Michel's heart, but that has not stopped him from producing new prophecies. Is not that he could stop anyways, especially because the source of many of these was visions who’s origins were hidden in the mystery. The mystery of a world that went beyond what the human mind is accustomed to experience during mortality. An ethereal, parallel, alternative world.

And so, Michel abandoned the path he was following, and took the way that led him into the woods.  
That night, he wanted to be alone.  
He always had his introversion moments, but this time it was different: he knew he had little time left. And his last wish was to exhale his last breath lying on a lawn, looking at the stars. He has always had a particular attraction towards the stars, constellations that dotted the sky when it was at its darkest. Often he observed them, analyzing some possible truth from an omniscience whose fragments were radiated from those little lights.  
He would die that night, he knew it, he might as well do it by looking at what he loved the most.

Then he walked among the tall grass that covered the ground beneath the trees that manifested themselves in all their sylvan greatness. As it continued, however, the environment seemed to take on an increasingly dark tone. The darkness of the night fell like a sheet, the air became stale and the branches of the twisted trees seemed intent on kidnapping Michel. The man continued to wander undaunted in the void that had been generated, with his gaze lost in the stars. The stars were guiding him, illuminating and crumbling with their distant glimmers every sign of hesitation and uncertainty.

However, it didn't take long before Michel started to feel a strange feeling. The disturbing feeling that someone was peering on him.  
To be precise, something.  
To be worse, more things.  
The stable glimpses were invasive and unnerving, originating from several pairs of eyes crowned with pitch black feathers; small, graceful but squat figures could then be seen, perched on the branches of the trees. They were crows, who did not take their eyes off Michel as he was walking along the wild path. The longer he went on, the more the crows increased and thickened among themselves, curious but judgmental. As if they were mocking him, aware of the fate that awaited him, sinister giggles rang in their croaks.  
Michel was starting to feel in awe.  
The wood had thickened, it was almost claustrophobic, but in the distance a weak street lantern’s light was visible, that dimly illuminated a clearing. Michel arrived there: a perfect place for his final contemplation. But the relief did not last long when he glimpsed the trees around the clearing, and saw the crows from before flutter and place themselves on the branches and other improvised positions. They were waiting for something to happen to him, may it be death or anything else.  
Michel was starting to find this thing rather sinister, but still he accepted this bad omen with open arms, he was going die anyways.  
At least it seemed that the crows were just looking at him and nothing more, so he could simply ignore them. He was about to lie down when a hoarse voice hissed behind him, breaking the silence in which he was immersed:  
\- So you've come, Nostradamus .. -  
Michel recognized the voice. More scrause and aged, but it was hers.  
He slowly turned around, showing a tired frown to his interlocutor:  
\- Ismay, really? -  
The woman frowned, her wrinkled skin getting more marked:  
\- Don't act surprised. You knew I was coming. -  
She tilted her head slightly on one side, an aversion sparking in her eyes:  
\- After all, you know everything, don't you? Even when you don't know anything,  
you know everything. -  
She didn't digged much into detail, she didn’t need to, since Michel was already aware of the damage he had done in that woman's life.  
A vision, an interpretation, a mistake.  
It was ruin for her, and a failure for him.  
A series of events of injustice, which led Michel to be considered the false prophet, while Ismay has isolated herself from humans, holed up in the local forest.  
She was alone, and at that point she wanted to be alone. However, she has found comfort in the small inhabitants of the place, precisely the crows. She has once rescued a young crow, neglected by his fellows from his species because he was born albino. Over time, Ismay was welcomed by the rest of the community.  
She was grateful for it, those birds with a poor reputation kept her company more than any human in the recent years, who avoided her like she had the plague, which in fact she has had once. It took a while for her to gain the trust of the crows and learn their language. But that had paid off. Now all of them were in under her command, and followed her everywhere.  
And she took advantage of this condition, given the treacherous nature she possessed. Following all the beatings she had suffered, she made it possible to give those people a taste of their own medicine, but in a more ferocious way.  
A man had attempted to poison her bread by putting hemlock ointment, unaware of being seen by the watchful eyes of the crows, posted on the roof of Ismay's hut.  
On a gloomy day, a peasant woman found the man’s deceased body, lying obliquely on a fence.  
Another, of noble origins, had led a lynching against Ismay, burning her old home.  
A few months later he was found dead too, near the woods.  
And so, many others, who had made Ismay's life a hell, received the verdict for their grim actions.  
One thing in common among all their fatalities: their bodies were covered in deep holes, gushing out blood, pierced by a lashing and brutal force. Wounds that were not of human origin.  
Those responsible, many of them, watched the future victims from above, laughing at their miserable fate. Then more and more of them, who surrounded their targets until their abominated condemnation could be realized, a fate of which they were fundamental accomplices, often hired assassins, if not a sadist audience.  
Their presence heralded the junta of Ismay, whom only a simple nod was enough for the creatures of the night to start the attack.  
And therefore, Ismay was a woman feared by all, at the beginning for trivial reasons. But now, now she had turned into a real monster who punishes the wrongdoers in cold blood. Punishing sinners was not her job, but she was probably bored, as well as her mind being incorporated into her rotten ego.  
Such pity, she was once such a beautiful woman. Blonde hair that reflected the color of platinum, eyes like two corozo buttons set in the long, slender pale face. The sinuous body hidden by the long brown robe, the hands like those of a pianist, even if the piano had not been invented yet at the time.  
Following all that happened to her, however, Ismay cared little about keeping herself watchable, people didn't want to accept her, so may they fear her!  
The braid in which she gathered her long hair had now melted, while her hair has got dirty and messy, time was marked in the wrinkles that were traced on her face. The arched body, her wrinkled hands with overgrown and jagged nails.  
The eyes hidden behind the thickened eyelids and the evident dark eye sockets, were injected with blood, as they stabbed with their glare the person behind all this tragedy: Michel Nostradamus.

\- Ismay.. you know it.. - the man tried to say: - It was a mistake, a huge one. It has costed me dear, as much as it did cost you. -

The woman's eyes narrowed when she heard that "me" in his sentence: still so self-centered!  
\- I admit, more you than me. - Michel corrected himself, realizing: - My displeasure regarding my actions is as immense as it was, and it is, my selfishness. I don't think you'll ever forgive me, and rightly so. But I'm wasting breath:  
you know already that I'm sorry. - A brief moment of silence followed, perhaps he was remembering all the killings, of the bodies pierced like a gruyere cheese, the invasive smell of decomposition that stung in the nose and the terror of seeing flocks of crows intone dreary songs as they flew away above the trees. All those deaths, which occurred because of him:  
\- That's why you left me alive, isn’t it? -  
\- Killing you would be too merciful. - confirmed the woman:  
By doing this I would have put you on a par with everyone else. But you are not like the others, you are worse. - Her face tightened in a judgmental grimace: - Scum! - And then she swollen her chest: - And the worst, the scum, deserves much more than just death. It deserves to suffer a more prolonged pain. You had to live through the agony of guilt, recalling the error whose damage cannot be remedied. Distressed and pained, ‘til the very end. And when your time comes, I'll be here .. - she raised her chapped lips, revealing decayed and worn teeth: - Watching you PERISH. -  
Michel did not reply. He only limited himself to exhale a deep sigh, as deep as the exhaustion that accompanied it. And then:  
\- You won’t have to wait too long for that .. - he reported: - So tonight is your lucky night. - He then proceeded to lift one of his extended sleeves, showing the series of red bubos that protruded on his skin. Ismay looked at them with conviction.  
\- Tonight. - He said: - It is tonight that I will lie for the last time, falling into my eternal sleep. - His gaze was imposed on Ismay's, when the man uttered a damned phrase:  
\- Now you can be happy. -  
The lady of the crows felt her blood boil like an active volcano under the salt water of the sea. Her mouth was clenched with gritted teeth, her eyes widened becoming more penetrating. The body seemed intent on trembling but was paralyzed, until the woman marched a couple of meters in a stoic way, and then stretched out her forefinger in front of the man's face, the man that destroyed any chance for her to be happy, enraged:  
\- Mark my words well, Nostradamus! -  
In the crow audience, choruses of croaks and nervous cackles began to rise, in the meantime a raven landed on Ismay's left shoulder. It was completely white, and the purple eyes with red pupils were blocked into the void. Ismay, the lady of the crows, had not curbed the cursing speech:  
\- You can die, be buried and celebrated, and then be food for the worms!  
But this does not remove the damage that you have caused during your begging for fame and attention.  
For this does not hurt only me, but also those who were there along with me,  
before me,  
and who will come next!  
Your name, once a fascinating mystery that lightened your image, is now only the surname of a false prophet!  
He who created the problem by walking on the path he took to avoid it!  
You are a curse! And this curse will be dragged into all your offsprings and those after them!  
As she went on, the crows were getting louder, almost impatient. Handfuls of them suddenly took flight, forming a circular whirlwind on the heads of Michel and Ismay:  
\- Your death will be the beginning of the doom! -  
Michel was silent, but inside he was starting to get alarmed.  
Ismay was mad, she was delirious. Although he was going to die shortly after and before that he was going to be negligent for most of the problems he would encounter, he hoped to die at least in peace alone. Politely, he wanted this improvised poultrywoman to lift her heels and leave. But he knew that asking her to simply leave would have been ridiculous: you cannot reason with people like her. Slowly but steadily he stepped back. Ismay believed it was out of fear, and partly it was, but then she saw him retreat faster and faster in an arrogant manner that lashed in her soul, enraging her even further.  
\- Where do you think you're going now ?! - she grunted, the woman discomposed herself from her hard priority pose. She has expected it, but it still irritated her. Nostradamus has always been the type to run away from his problems as soon as he could.  
\- Come back here now! - she demanded.  
But Michel pretended he didn’t hear her, as he turned around and walked away, displaying a bit crippled walk because of the bubos, and then disappeared into the gloomy darkness of the forest.  
\- I HOPE YOU GO IN HELL TO THE DEVIL, NOSTRADAMUS !! - She exclaimed, her soul full of hatred and grudge to hold. Michel interrupted his concealed escape for a brief moment, giving to the lady of the crows one last glare, showing deep regret in his face:  
\- Dear Ismay, soon I will be able to satisfy your request.. -


	2. Chapter 1: And the sea called in a headache.

Do you know about the mysterious case of the "Bloop"?  
The name may not be anything too majestic, but trust me if I tell you that it is something of an exponential bulk.  
It was the summer of 1997 when a very low frequency sound was recorded from the depths of the Pacific Sea, with such an immense power that not even the largest of the blue whales would be able to replicate it. After years of theories and studies, it was attributed to some underwater vulcano activities, if not a rubbing and pressure crest or a detachment of glaciers of an important size, and so it didn't take long before blooming hardcore environmentalists pointed against the greedy industry, accusing it of increasing the global warming, when at the end of the day they were part of the society as well.  
This seemed to have solved the mystery relegated to this strange sound, but it did not stop the curious people that craved for a more certain truth. Who knows, maybe the fact of volcanic activities or glaciers or what else was nothing more than a trick to detach the public's eyes from the real hypothetical origin of the Bloop.  
The sound spread for miles and miles, and if it had organic origins it must have been for sure a magnified creature compared to the blue whale, therefore a titanic living creature perhaps unknown by humanity.

And this is precisely the key to know the reality of the facts.

But for now we have to take a step of a couple of decades back in time, in the flower of the 70s.

And so we are in 1976, an era of gypsies with flowers dancing hallucinated in the parks, rainbows waved on the streets, chaotic wars among young people to get two shots of cannabis, of obsolete and sometimes hypocritical movements of peace and love and let's not forget the iconic elephant legs shaped pants!  
Weather anomalies were reported just at the beginning of the year, due to a depression that broke away from the lower central Atlantic. Previously generated in the Barents Sea, a flow and after this an actual windy wave of the sea hit many coasts around the world, causing floods. The phenomenon was called "the gale of January 1976".  
For all people this was generated by natural causes, but certainly all of them were just unsuspecting humans.  
The origin of those storms was holed up in the meanders of the ocean, in the chasm of an abyss, surrounded by the darkness and loneliness of captivity that could only increase the ferocity of her catastrophic creations. The sea was angry that year, as one of its inhabitants was not particularly pleased to be trapped in its depths for whole millennias by now. Especially if in theory she was supposed to be considered the mistress of the seas. In fact, she could monitor its movements, so the storm that was raging on January that year did not announce anything good from her side.  
She had an important title. And she was furious.  
For centuries she had waited to be freed from the grip of the sleepy Kraken who held her back by caging her with its tentacles.  
But nobody ever came.  
Every day and every night she looked up, pointing her glare towards that hint of light that could be glimpsed in the darkness of the abyss, hoping that one day she would be able to go up to the surface and to immerse herself in that light. She was alone, and only her imagination remained to keep herself entertained. Well, maybe not really imagination. She was a demon, and several demons do not have a fervent imagination. More than anything, some sort of telepathy and mental teleportation. With her mind she wandered around the world, tempting people who seemed most prone to fell into the sin of envy, deadly sin that she represented well. She could have stayed there for a bit longer, doing her mental journeys and sneaking into people's minds, growling at those few passing fish who dared to swim too close to her, but something suddenly happened.  
She sensed a sensation, flaring in energy all over her body. Every bone in her body seemed to turn to steel as her hands dug their nails into some tentacle that imprisoned her. She was almost as if she was recovering from the abominable pressure she had been forced into remission up to that moment, that for all those millennia she had weakened her to the point that she could no longer feel in control of her own body. .  
She had tried, for a long time, to fight against this power of the Kraken, but the strength of the titanic humanoid octopus prevailed. No matter how much she didn't want him, she was no longer the architect of her destiny.  
She was helpless and limited up to that point.  
But now she could feel how her joints were becoming more and more flexible, allowing her to move more freely within her intricate imprisonment.  
As her mind, until then clouded and tired, was starting to clear up, as her willpower reveled itself once again, burning inside her, influencing the tenacity of her movements.  
What could it possibly be that she was allowing her such a vigorous recovery, if not her eternal rival?  
Yes, she could feel it, a call that vibrated in her soul, a call that proclaimed the start of the second match of the battle. For years she had been waiting for this call from him, and finally being able to end their rivalry once and for all, killing him. But she was still a prisoner in her kingdom because of the Kraken.  
But now she had lost her patience, it was time to stop waiting and act. Soon her creatures would have arrived, and then she would finally swim away.  
So it was time for her to announce her return. She launched a call, that echoed into the maze of the world, until it reached the depths of the underlying dimension, the infernal one. It was a silent call, perceived only to those under her command, the subjects from her court, scattered throughout Hell given her physical absence. This did not mean that she was not present, and they knew it, may it cost them an immense pain that she would cause by telepathy. She was able to channel all her pain, may it be physical or mental, and to provoke it into her own subjects, who suffered enormously.

She was not even that aggressive, personality speaking, but I assume that being chained by the Kraken's tentacles down to the deep abyss of an undefined ocean for more than a thousand years had not played in favor of cultivating a peaceful and serene nature. Over the years, in her captivity, she had developed anything dark in her, an animal side that she always had to repress but that never left her side, a part of her that poured into a melody that sang in the mind of the demons of her court at a time of January, while the storm threw itself on the coasts of the world.  
In the streets of Hell there was a silent bustle, caused by the demons of the sea that rubbed themselves in the bloody floor, they hardly stood still, they threw themselves full weight into the pits, they were lopsided on their feet, others of them were banging their heads on the wall, while others strolled around, watched by the other perplexed demons, those who continued on their way and those who stopped by to look. The only ones who still seemed to show a semblance of self-control, not without any dose of effort, were the major members of the court: Duke Rahab, Count Tiamat and General Dagon. At least they had to be able to show the minimum order required for those who were temporarily in charge of a court.  
They remained there, dumbfounded, a sense of cowardice of a chilling foreboding leaked into their dead eyes. Was it possible that what they feared was happening, or was it just a big trifle from their Lord? Perhaps to rouse them from their reveries about allowing themselves to belong to a higher authority in that court without stable leadership, and to remind them of who was really in charge. But they knew their Lord all too well, they knew that if that was his only intention it would be limited to just the three of them. But what was happening around them was anything but a joke or a reproachful admonition. It didn't take long for the reports of some internal complication to reach important ears, bothering a representative of the upper class to break away from their beloved throne and come to witness themselves the source of the turbulence.

And so Beelzebub, the first Prince of Hell, hearing the ever louder moans and suffocated cries of the fish-demons, advanced through the corridors and rooms with an almost martial way and an annoyed face, until they reached the place where pandemonium arose. They observed the surroundings with an air of absolute contempt: they were never too fond of the members of the sea Court. Slimy to the core, in every sense, with the wild instincts that certainly did not favor the attitude of formality (the little that Hell was satisfied with, at least) expected to earn that minimum of seriousness and respect from the other demons. Not to mention their monothematic expressions and which often did not give them a too illustrious attire. And their breath ... were a mere mortal creature like a human standing in front of them would be suffocated to a coma in a matter of minutes. Yet, given their habitual immersions in water sources, they were also clean, too clean for Beelzebub's refined tastes, satisfied only by the sight of bodies disfigured by plagues, stomachs withered by hunger, and food infested with parasites. Not for nothing was they're the Lord of Flies and Pestilence. But despite everything, the fish demons were known to possess a somewhat fervent intelligence, sadly limited by their precarious executive skills. And this was enough for Beelzebub to consider them inferior, they didn't care if they turned out to be misunderstood geniuses. And so, seeing the demons-fish collapse in pain on the ground, screaming like marmots with some cancer at the vocal cords, could only make them lower to mere parasites in Beelzebub's scornful gaze. The Prince moved around the area, occasionally stepping on some limb of an exhausted fish demon, perhaps by accident, perhaps intentionally. They surpassed a group of sea demons who were eagerly thrusting their heads into the puddles to take a necessary gulp of water to breathe better, without giving way to anyone else, and then the other desperate ones left piled up near the puddles, resting their their gills in those ridiculous remnants of water, squashed to the ground. Beelzebub watched them out of the corner of their eye as they pulled straight. Their face hardened at the sight. -These beings ..- they commented to themselves.

Their irritated dismay faded into relief when they glimpsed Tiamat and Rahab, and a little further away from them Dagon. She was their trusted General, lord of the Files and occasional farrier. Probably the only fish demon who was spared from the grim prejudice that Beelzebub reserved for those of her subspecies. Beelzebub joined the noble trio, the only ones they could call true demons and not heaps of scales with an apparent doubtful capacity of intellect, it seemed impossible to have a normal conversation with those creatures. But those three were different. They could have given an answer.

\- What'zzz wrong, Dagon ?! - Asked the Lord of the Flies, Beelzebub: - What izzz going on with all of them ?! -  
Dagon was dumbfounded for a moment, squinted her eyes and pressed her temples with the fingers. In every corner of her mind that melody of a spasmodic meaning sounded sore, intoned by a sweet voice, yet accompanied by a sharp and atrocious pain, which stormed inside the heads of the fish demons:

Ah ah ah ah ~

Only a sea demon, the one who suffered that agonizing pain, would be able to decipher this message that was visible to only them either way, and a sea demon is what Dagon was.  
So she tried to compose herself, struggling to fight the pressure, and turning around to the Lord of the Flies, she deigned them of an answer, but it was very bitter:

\- Lord Leviathan is about to awake completely .. -

Although it was not apparent, a thud of hesitation fell into the soul of the Lord of the Flies. For a moment it seemed unlikely what they have heard, and the potential consequence of what would happen with the total awakening of the Lord of the seas, but they still considered the possibility. They quickly shook their head.

-She's going for that battle, I zzuppose. -

Dagon was silent, slightly swaying her head, her gaze seemed lost. She was all stiff, she was still taking that pain nailed to her skull. She found it so hard to even speak. But the message given by Leviathan was clear, as were her intentions already known to them. Without returning her gaze to Beelzebub, she nodded slowly but firmly. But Beelzebub, still with that shred of skepticism, turned to Rahab and Tiamat, hoping for other interpretations that might debunk what Dagon had reported. But everything they managed to utter only consolidated it. - I'm afraid .. that's it .. - Rahab hissed, a demon whose physiognomy recalled that of a white shark. - She says .. - Tiamat, the jellyfish demon also murmured, breathing heavily: - She says .. that she is freeing herself .. she is tired of waiting .. she wants to go out .. she wants to kill him .. - she put her hands on her head full of strands of pendulous rasta, her breath became more intense and faster: - She wants to kill him .. she wants him dead .. she wants him dead .. she wants him dead .. Dead, dead, DEAD !! -She felt a sudden burst of heat sizzle her brain, and she on impulse she fell to her lap. Like her, Dagon and Rahab hunched over in pain. She was too strong. Leviathan's anger was evident. Beelzebub pulled away from the tortured trio. They still didn't understand. How could Leviathan recover within the Kraken's grasp? The Kraken was their only resource available to hold off her catastrophic power that had repeatedly threatened humans and other creatures. Not that Beelzebub would care that much, but demons were included in her list of victims. And if she could fully awaken even under those conditions, there was little to hope for.

\- So it's true .. She's waking up .. but how? It's too early ! -

Tiamat did not even try to get up, and pressed her hands to the ground, head bowed, spitting out streams of drool as if to pull out the scourge she had inside her; it was shocking to see a figure of such notoriety reduced in that state. On any other occasion she would have reduced you to a pulp with her eyes closed. She was motionless, helpless. Just the work of Leviathan and her damned telepathy, Beelzebub thought. The jellyfish demon, however, managed to vocalize a last sentence, two words that left Beelzebub extremely perplexed:

\- You too.. -

-What? - the Lord of the Flies frowned. Seeing Tiamat momentarily unable to speak, Rahab tried to compose himself, and he succeeded, the pain seemed to fade. As if to let him articulate what he would say, Beelzebub had to know, and he had to understand loud and clear. Rahab murmured: -You too .. you will be overwhelmed by her anger. You too, you will have to pay for what you let her go through .. You too will have to suffer .. You too .. - It was Dagon who concluded the sentence, looking at the Prince of the plague with a troubled air: - .. You will have to die. -

For a moment, only one, in the Lord of the Flies a wrinkle peeped out in the forehead, as a sign of uneasiness and anguish. But it was all dominated by their warlike and stern nature, decorated with a sense of pride, the only personality they had ever developed during those millennia in Hell.

\- Leviathan may be a Prince, but as long as this world turns, I am the first Prince of Hell and second in command! -  
Dagon was clearly afflicted by the threatening promise of the Lord of the Seas, and as much as she was aware of Beelzebub's enormous power, she also knew how far Leviathan could go to assert herself, especially with such anger that had been bubbling inside her for way too long. . Even at the cost of fighting the one who was theorically her superior. For formality reasons, but also above all because of the social code of the demons, she could not express her concern for the fate of the Prince of Flies. Too much empathy. Regardless, it wasn't just about Beelzebub here, but everyone. If Leviathan's aimed so high, it might just be to put her hand on the rest of the infernal people and maneuver them to some kind of shady purpose.  
\- And what are you going to do? - she asked, with the fear that inevitably overflowed from her scaly lips: - Leviathan is not just any demon .. she is a Mighty Beast! Any resources we have may not be enough to stop her.. -

Beelzebub stared with their glacial gaze the hesitant one of the two fish demons standing right in front of them: - I am aware of it. But don't let me let that beast generate such chaos before me given her the right to do so! Before proclaiming any sort of battle, she will have to deal with me .. and with all the others of her same rank. -  
They puffed up a little, then turned and marched out of the room filled with the dying fish demons, so damned.  
By now the telepathic torture was completely extinguished, leaving all the fish demons with an annoying buzz in their heads, clouded by dizziness. Tiamat regained the strength to get up, and awkwardly stood beside the perplexed Rahab and Dagon. Seeing their faces she could only sense anguish, and a ridiculously faint spark of hope. Whatever happened from then on would have probably leave an indelible mark. She remembered the last few sentences she had managed to decipher with her aching brain.  
\- I hope zir didn't take what we told zir personally .. -  
With a more human vocabulary, Rahab would have replied with a classic "the ambassador is not the one whom's message is sent".  
But demons make little use of such intermediaries. They were much more direct. And lethal.  
The three fish demons had to thank their position in the social class if Beelzebub had not roasted them on the spot in an act of utter offense.  
Meanwhile, the latter retraced the road that had brought them to the trio, surrounded by the subjects of Leviathan who were recovering in a nerve-wracking slowness, even if some of them were still on the ground, looking on the verge of death, but it would have been momentarily.  
Beelzebub's gaze was stoic and stern, they knew what they had to do.

\- Time to call the other four .. -


	3. Chapter 2: The mobster, the gambler and the clown.

Beelzebub advanced through the corridors crowded with passing demons, groups that crumbled as soon as the fly demon approached as a sign of respect. Or it was simply the fear that arose from their gloomy and (at least in those shanty places) unusual presence, and the demons submission to them, considering what it took to get them all in line. Respect was considered too virtuous for their standards. Beelzebub mulled over the last sentences that had been reported to them by Rahab and Tiamat. But what was most etched in their memory was the ending uttered by Dagon, as her dull alarmed eyes stared at them.

"You too ... you will have to die."

Beelzebub shook their head: Leviathan. Who did she think she was?  
She might hold an important title, being the Lord of the Seas, but in the eyes of the fly demon she was just a beast that needed to be trained in order to be kept quiet , even if that would have required her to endure one more lash. No, she wasn't going to get away with this. They would have stopped her before she could even scratch them.  
\- Bring me the servant of a thousand clones! -  
They ordered an imprecise subordinate to the air, but was satisfied anyway.  
The demon servant came lightning fast: Eric, practically the puppet on duty. Dark skin and hair gathered in two elongated spikes at the top of the head and eyes with a pitch dark iris. He was not always frowned upon by other demons, especially the nobles, given his talkative and quite carefree attitude. He hardly seemed to notice his position as a servant, since it was foreseen that he had only to keep quiet and carry out the orders given without comment. Always right in line. The others did in fact waste no time in mistreating him or using him as a guinea pig for various gruesome experiments.  
Like to throw him into the flames to calculate how long it took him to be completely consumed.  
Or that time when in spite of a wrong suffered by a completely different demon, one beat him until the latter was paralyzed on the ground, as if he were letting off steam with a living punching bag.  
In short, not an easy life. Surely that little bit more animated by the life of a noble, but it always took several painful episodes and undeserved spit in the face even if only for having shown off a pun invented on the spot. When you don't like a noble from hell (which the opposite is almost impossible anyway), everyone else will feel entitled to treat you as a laughing stock.  
The one advantage Eric had, and the only reason he could still be considered whole, lay in his peculiar power to be able to multiply, thus generating a horde of Eric ready for use. A use that was usually limited to just reducing them to puppets to test some new torture technique, sometimes even just to satisfy the sadism of others like him.  
For that reason alone, if he had entrusted his fate to the efficiency of his services, we won't be even talk about Eric the demon here.  
But this time he had better get the job done successfully, as it was more than just carrying a bucket because of a problem in the leakage from the pipes or checking to see if the circuitry in the light power supply melted, just examples of the poor care that the demons had of their home.  
He understood this the moment he found himself in front of Beelzebub themselves, and not the usual mediator demon.  
\- Hey, look who's come among us! Eric at your service! - said the servant as he smiled greeted, with a tone that faded from surprise to a subtle sarcasm, which flew over the cold but oblivious Beelzebub.  
\- Servant, I have come to entrust you with a task of inestimable importance. -  
There, the usual things he has to deal over and over again. Even if it was a Prince to tell them.  
\- Of course! Clogged pipes to unclog? Problems of interference with the monitoring of human souls? -  
He listed, in the hope that what he would be entrusted with was not a cold shower. But not hearing an immediate response, he lowered his head for a moment, showing an anticipated resignation, flapping his arms at his hips:  
\- Or is there a new technique of eternal torment that I have to be tested on as a guinea pig? -  
But a part of him could imagine how it couldn't be all this, especially since if Beelzebub had bothered to call him themselves, it couldn't be an everyday job.  
The latter was standing in front of him, and despite their modest sixty-eight meters of height, they stared down at him with their eyes as clear as the moon, dominated by a frown.  
\- You have to send a message to the four Princes, you have to tell them that they have been summoned by my order to an assembly to clarify a matter which is worth the state of the whole world. -  
Who knows how Eric was surprised, what would he ever expect as an order when given by Beelzebub themselves? What was up with the whole world's fate? It was in danger, just like that, out of the blue? But what interested him most was the people mainly got involved in this.  
\- I .. the four Princes, my lord? -  
The fly demon's tone became more solid, the volume higher, they remarked:  
\- Exactly. The four Princes under my command. Asmodeus. Mammon. Belial. - and then they almost involuntarily raised their eyes to the sky, and concluded with a sigh as they uttered the last name:  
\- And Belphegor too. Track them down and deliver the message. -  
Eric was incredulous, but a little flame of excitement soon flared within him, mixed with an intrusive but necessary uncertainty: the four Princes. He would be able to interact with them in person. No intermediaries. He couldn't believe it, a curse-soaked dream come true. He had to be presentable. A flurry of questions set off.  
What would they be like?  
Would they match the descriptions given by the other demons and all the various urban legends?  
Could he ask for an autograph? Mammon might have turned a blind eye, but Asmodeus and Belial were considered too brutal for his repressed comedian character. With them he must try to act formal. With Belphegor... who knows... he would have improvised, he knew very little about that particular demon. She was not known to manifest herself explicitly.  
In any case, it was better to leave with precautions and be organized when it comes to meetings with subjects of that kind. But he would have thought about it during the journey he would have took to reach them.  
The demon servant closed his eyes and began to vibrate every cell that he had in his body, creating a phenomenon where the latter were incited by his energy, doubling all equally, thus creating identical and sentient copies of the demon. And so, just like that, in about ten seconds, after transforming into a living reverberation, he returned to his normal stage, finding himself multiplied four times, behind him three of his freshly baked clones.  
The original Eric raised his head, and stepped one foot on the ground, straightening his body:  
-It will be done immediately ..- he bowed, with an emphatic tone of someone on a stage at the end of the show:  
\- Prince Beelzebub ..! -  
The fly demon then proceeded to march away, but not without stopping for a moment after passing the servant on the side, hissing:  
\- You better. If the mission fails, I will make sure that you and any of your clones in this dimensional plane are reduced to molecules. -  
The three newborn clones already on the risk of death swallowed.  
Remembering the usual threat was now a classic for anyone who gave Eric tasks to do.  
But this time it was not just a matter of snooty nobles. There was something about the way Beelzebub said it that made the blood run cold. Eric knew they would keep their word. And he honestly didn't want to try it out to make sure they would. They had a highly dark and intimidating energy ... the pestilence demon.  
The servant merely nodded his assent, and so he and his clones disappeared quickly, in search of the four Princes.

These four were nothing more than demons who, like Beelzebub, shared the role as Hell Princes. Beelzebub would have personally preferred to work alone, but they had to admit that a more divided administration would be required to manage nine circles of Hell.  
In theory there were seven of them, each once symbolized by a deadly sin. The sins anchored in the heart of every human being, who only needed a whisper or seductive promise to make them emerge. What even if you try to deny them, inside you know they are always there, blooming like a damned disease, present since birth.

Beelzebub, the major representative, was the sin of the Gluttony. The others were Lust, Greed, Wrath, Sloth and Envy.  
And then there was Pride, whose name of him who represents it is something from which many demons refrain from pronouncing.  
The Lord of darkness, the emperor of the world below, the one who brought millions upon millions of angels under his cursing wing, leading them to their fall from grace and making them inhabitants of Hell. Just him: Lucifer, the Devil, or as he prefers to be called now, Satan.

Even Leviathan was a Hell prince, but unlike the others fate was not so generous to her. And in fact she was now the protagonist of a problem, a big one, which turned against those who, more than others, must have been her close partners.

But now let's proceed with order. So let's catapult ourselves into an avenue in Scotland.  
A man, a modestly well-dressed man, set off on a road that led to places far from the mass of people, a den for those who wanted to do something unknown. He was holding a steel briefcase firmly in his hand.  
As he continued the construction became less frequent, leaving the man alone with his perennial tension now stronger than ever. As soon as he found himself in a decadent suburb abandoned to his fate he turned the corner, and there they were, parked behind a high-class car. A trio of men, also stuffed into their white shirts lined with a long black tie and tucked into equally black jackets. One of them in particular stood out more distinctly, dressed in a dark turquoise blue jacket, the one in the middle.  
A stout man, with a bush of red-hot hair that contrasted the black hair of the other two, took a few steps towards the newcomer, approaching the moment of the real approach. The fiery eyes that revealed themselves under the shadow of his simple but elegant hat seemed to sparkle.  
\- Forgive me for being a little late.. - the man with the briefcase tried to say, displaying an obvious Russian accent:  
\- I found problems in going unnoticed, you know, someone like me with this in my hand, you know, it happened tha- -  
\- Cut it short. - The red-haired one interrupted him, mimicking a pair of scissors with his hand: - Do you have what we want? -  
\- Of course! - and proceeded to throw the briefcase in front of him. It made a loud thud: in its minuteness it was certainly very heavy! The red-haired guy motioned for one of the two men behind him to open it, and he did as asked. Inside there were plenty of fine drugs. The red-haired man counted them superficially: they seemed to be the right amount by eye. He took a piece of it and sniffed it intensely. He seemed convinced.  
Meanwhile, in the man carrying the briefcase a thread of pride leaked, while the red-haired man closed the briefcase suddenly:  
\- Thank you for your service. Mr. Marlow will appreciate it.. - He gave the briefcase to the other two men who, having seen from him signs that only them could understand, holed up behind the vehicle. They then began to analyze the briefcase. They emptied it.  
The man with the briefcase tapped the heel of one foot frantically on the ground:  
\- When can I collect my money? -  
\- Calm, stay calm. We are not in a hurry. - replied the red-haired man with a calm tinged with mockery. Then he asked:  
\- Has it been difficult? -  
The Russian man let out a nervous chuckle: - Well, you know. For them I am faithful to their service. They trust me! -  
\- I guess .. - The two men meanwhile had sneaked out the various tools, and began to tamper with the briefcase.  
\- You know, I admit to nurture a certain admiration in the type of work you do .. - continued the one with the red hair: - Having to infiltrate into the other mafias, pretending to be their accomplice without being defiled. It requires ... excellent acting. - slowly he apprehended the other man: - Truly misleading .. -  
The two men uncovered the surface of the inside of the briefcase: there was a strange card inside.  
\- It would be a shame if we were only another target on your list .. -  
The man of the briefcase looked dazed, made a weak nervous grunt: - What are you talking about? You know I would never do it -  
\- I can't be certain that. You must have said the same thing in front of Mr. Leonid, yet look. Persuade, take and give other people their loot, and in the meantime you spread valuable information in quite risky areas. -  
\- I .. are you accusing me of treason ?! - The briefcase guy was starting to ooze anxiety from all pores, and the red-haired man could see that. Those flaming eyes peered at his soul.  
\- Well, I mean .. I can't come to such conclusions in such rash way. To justify such accusation, I need some proof. -  
One of the two men slipped from behind the car, called the attention of the red-haired man and made him a sign of affirmation. The red-haired man cast an ephemeral but penetrating gaze on the man in the suitcase, and then he too disappeared behind the vehicle. For the man of the briefcase those were the longest thirty seconds of his life, and he would soon realize that those thirty seconds would mark his doom. The red-haired gentleman then came out of his hiding place, stopping directly in front of him. One hand was clenched in a fist.  
\- You know, Dimitri .. - he lowered his head but keeping his eyes firmly on the man: - You have great potential. Really. I could have happily used you to monitor the various squabbles between the local gangs. Or let us gather some information about the business movements of the German mafia. Or send you to collect taxes in the territories occupied by us. Who knows ... - With an unnerving malice he opened his hand, revealing the small card. The man of the briefcase swallowed loudly.  
\- You are the proof that in this kind of job you have to be VERY cautious. -  
The man felt the blood freeze, who knows how he gathered the guts to reply: - Mr. Manfred, I-I can explain .. -  
\- Yes, I'm curious. Tell me why did you put this tracking device in the briefcase? Was the drug just to lure us? Did you really think it was that simple? -  
\- Please, Mr. Manfred. They cornered me, either this or my life. I had no other choice! -  
For a moment the face of the red-haired man seemed to soften. But it was a false tenderness.  
\- You know, your loyalty to your homeland is admirable. Despite everything, you are still on their side. - from there his face twisted into a vile expression: - It is why I will take away from them the burden of having to eliminate you. -  
Hearing that phrase, the briefcase man's legs started to tremble, he stammered: - No .. please .. don't do this to me .. I'm just a desperate man. - - Exactly. - said the red-haired one: - This is why considering how things will go after I give you some more of your time. You have ten seconds of advantage. -  
"How things will go after?" Exuded in the watery eyes of the briefcase man. But he had little time to ask, the other had already started counting.  
Immediately he sprang and tried to run as fast as he could, a little awkwardly due to the stress load that was boiling inside.  
For a while the red-haired one watched him go. He then laid his eyes on the two men at his side, with their pistol already brandished, aimed at various points of the stunned figure who was going away.

\- Eliminate him. -

And there was a scourge of bullets that pierced the air, and the man of the briefcase was on the ground.

After this certainly not for him unpleasant event, the red-haired man left the two men, and went down to the gates of the local city, Edinburgh, to be take a passage from a common taxi.  
\- Where are we headed? - asked the taxi driver, lowering the mirror to see better his momentary client.  
The latter raised his head: - Grosvenor. -  
\- And Grosvenor it is. -  
After an almost sightseeing tour of the Scottish capital, they made it to the destination, a luxurious casino.  
\- Right to the Devil's den, huh? - the taxi driver allowed himself to comment playfully.  
\- Mh .. Evidently .. - the red-haired man merely said:  
\- Many people are likely to fall into his fangs. - And he went out, heading straight into the casino entrance. - But I'm missing a tip here? - said the taxi driver, and not seeing any answer from the man he snorted and vanished.  
Now, perhaps for the taxi driver what the man had said about the fangs of the Devil was only a metaphorical representation. But no, he was very much serious. Little did that paid driver know, that he had just given passage to someone who had way too much to do with the Devil.  
Said man went into the casino, where the smell of cigarettes and alcohol welcomed him.  
His scrutinizing eyes looked at the surroundings: the building was full of people betting, people playing, winning or losing, whether it was some moderate sum of money or the last hope left for them to lead an appropriate life. It was not a rare occurrence that episodes of lives ended up in the abyss of poverty after having bet a little more risky price than usual, clinging on indiscriminate good luck, hanging on its verdict. Not to mention all the dirty business that characterized the casino, the negotiation at the back of the building, which could go from being a traffic of prostitutes and mafia retailers which the red haired man was quite familiar with.  
The man sat down on a chair perched near a table. He pulled out a cigar and lit it. While he sat there smoking and watching the matches of other people from afar, a deep familiar voice appeared behind him, intoned in a sarcastic way:  
\- Would you like to play a game too? -  
The red-haired man seemed almost intent on laughing: - Well, it's a little late for me to be brought back to grace, isn't it? But I decline the offer, I prefer to get the money in other ways. -  
He turned to the owner of the voice, a man with slim and Arab features, with long raven hair gathered in a pigtail, the mulatto face crowned with a beard elongated in a lace. His eyes as dark as the night.  
\- But I assume you are already aware of this, Asmodeus. -  
Asmodeus spread his nostrils slightly:  
\- You smell of cocaine. What did you do this time? -  
\- Well, the usual stuff! Mafia organizations that tease each other and drugs are involved. Sometimes humans put themselves in the midst of situations greater than themselves, in which they think they are in control, that they are SO powerful, but in the end they are miserable mortals too. -  
He shook his head. - Why are they like this? -  
Asmodeus snorted amusedly: - YOU asking such thing? You are Mammon, the ultimate demon of avarice. Before anyone else, you should know how the greedy soul of humans works. And what they would be willing to do for what interests them, especially if money is at stake. - he rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward, putting his hand on a par with Mammon's:  
\- I mean, look at them .. I see them every night betting bigger and bigger amounts, as if their life depended on the verdict of that game. They think they can save themselves, but in reality this is only one way of falling into temptation and confirming their condemnation. And all this just for their lust for money. - he turned to Mammon: - They are like that. -  
Asmodeus knew the nature of the casino extremely well, being the demon of gambling himself, the one who had generated this by suggesting it to humans. Before, in ancient times, they presented themselves as bets on brawl animals, or battles with gladiators, which satisfied the blood thirst that Asmodeus had yet to repress. Then over the centuries he managed the evolution of gambling and made sure that the stakes were not only valuable objects, but also money. And that you shouldn't necessarily bet on fights, but by playing games. Now he was staying in the casinos, his royal palaces, where he witnessed the ruin of many people's lives, while others gained more and more money, with the permanent risk that soon they would be taken by another luckier player. He enjoyed watching humans dig their own pit. He didn't even have to try to tempt them, he just needed a little game and some money as a possible prize to catch them. And Asmodeus had always been very skilled in seducing people, in fact he was the one who represented Lust. This disgusted Mammon, humans disgusted him.  
\- What a show .. - said the demon Asmodeus.  
Mammon showed a serious frown, between his thick eyebrows and rounded mustache, and said: - Anyway, I have not come here to comment on the life choices of these unfortunate people tonight. - reached out to the other demon: - Has the news reached to you? -  
Asmodeus returned the look: - Beelzebub summoned us, didn't zir? -  
\- Yes, for a general assembly of Princes .... and you know that doesn't mean very well. It's not an everyday thing! - Asmodeus looked down: - The only real thorn on the side will be having to put up with that perpetually demented demon who is anything but a Prince .. -  
Mammon immediately realizes, but still seemed not very surprised: - You mean Belphegor? As far as I know she is in her yearly hibernation now, so let's get ready to attend a.. very poor performance. - Asmodeus exhaled: - Nevermind.. -  
And immediately he got up: - Let's go then! -  
The two demons then vanished out of the casino and, in the dark, plunged into the ground, headed to Hell.

And right among the dark avenues of Hell, badly illuminated by a poor system of lights, the servant demon Eric was proceeding to go somewhere deep. To be precise one of his clones. Shortly before starting the search, the three copies of the disposable demon had sorted out, one would remain in Hell looking for Belphegor, while the other two would leave with the original to find Belial and later on Mammon and Asmodeus.  
Tragically only one of the three would have come back that day.  
Until then, everything had proceeded fairly smoothly, leaving out the initial phase of tracing through the infinite chain of demons with which he had to consult even if only to ask permission for a chat with their Prince. Otherwise everything was fine. Of course, he found himself a victim of Belial's fury, as he was forced to interrupt him during an important count of the sinful souls of the elders in Turkey. And you know, Belial is certainly not known for being a saint's shin. But luckily Eric has heeded the warnings originated from the various incidents of injuries caused by the Prince to his subordinates because of a small insignificant thing gone wrong. And he had therefore created a handful of backup clones unfortunately already destined for a not too rosy end. Unfortunately for Belial, whether interrupting his meticulous work was irritating or not, the fate of the world was a priority.  
The delivery of the message of convocation was then more peaceful with Mammon and Asmodeus. Eric found the demon of Greed in a plain near Edinburgh: he was preparing to leave with the men in suits to go to trade with the man with the suitcase Dimitri, whom we now know did not have a long life. The two men were initially wary of Eric, unknown to them. Seeing him suddenly appear and out of nowhere approach their superior with an outgoing attitude, they had already cautiously gripped their guns tucked under their jackets. But Mammon, who immediately recognized a servant of his kind, signaled to the two that there was no need to be alarmed.  
So he's really a quiet guy, after all, Eric thought.  
But after the unpleasant experience he had previously had with Belial he avoided being reckless so as not to risk slipping away from his sympathy and therefore tried to keep an attitude of formality and humility towards him.  
So, no autograph.  
Through Mammon he was also able to trace the location where Asmodeus resided early, since the auburn-haired demon was aware of his evening activity at the casino. Eric was grateful; he couldn't bear to stand still and wait for consent and direction from another endless line of half-robotic demons.  
He then found himself in the casino of Grosvenor, an extremely luxurious place, especially considering the places Eric was used to frequent.  
For a while he wandered around the bustling building, futilely addressing the men he met who came closest to the description Mammon had given him shortly before Asmodeus, hoping that one of them was him. But he did not find the Prince. Only pushes, glares and insults. And also a suffocating gust of cigar smoke in the face.  
\- What a bunch of people..! - Eric muttered to himself.  
\- Once they're dead, then they see. Surely Prince Mammon will not be so kind to them! -  
He was exhausted after that long day of research, he thought that there would be nothing wrong with taking a half hour of well-deserved break and rest. And then he rested his butt on the edge of a pool table conveniently disused at the time. He was looking up that he witnessed a scene.  
Two people, men, playing an intense game of Craps.  
He could also notice a very skimpy dressed girl staring at him eagerly, waiting for the outcome of that match.  
In the middle of the table between the two is another man, with a vigorous appearance, yet at times slender and tapered, fully dressed. He was refereeing the pace of the match. One who worked there sure. Probably the stickman.  
But there was something magnetic about that figure. The way he interacted with the players, whispering hypothetical moves into his ear to bring them closer to their victory. The way he seemed to have perfect control over everything, even the fate of both participants. The bets were placed, and he proceeded to move the newly rolled dice with the dexterity of a God who managed the fate of the people. Eric pulled away from his position to see better; he was fascinated by it: that man gave off a very peculiar energy. Mysterious. Dark. But the contemplation of him was clouded when one of the two men, now aware that he was on the verge of losing, began to raise his hands to the sky, and yell as he shook his arms:  
\- NO! IT'S IMPOSSIBLE! THE FUCKING SKINNY DUGAN! THREE TIMES IN A ROW BY NOW! EVEN THE DICES ARE AGAINST ME! -  
He walked out of the casino, gesturing and cursing and, such new thing, bumped into Eric rudely.  
After the servant killed that man in his mind in 50 different ways, his gaze returned to the stickman, who was grinning with satisfaction.  
He was looking at the winner of the match, while he turned a greedy face to the spectator girl, reaching a hand on her thigh. His gaze turned mischievous. She rolled her eyes, glueing them on the tokens on the table.  
\- Ahem! Do your thing in private and not here, please. - Said the boxman, as he rearranged the table for a new game.  
It was then that Eric realized: the money earned in that game, the winner would spend it to pay a prostitute. That whole game to fight for a prostitute.  
A prostitute. Symbol of lust. Lust..  
Wait, but then could that charming stickman man be who he was looking for?  
He actually seemed very pleased to have been a participant in that work, among other things it matched the description. Yes, it had to be him, the right one.  
She made her way through the people and approached the man.  
\- Intense game, huh? - she did to break the ice: - And only for a prostitute ..-  
\- Well, you see .. - the man answered, turning to Eric, turning his inevitable bewitching eyes to him: - Those who come here are usually prone to only two things: greed and lust. -  
He threw a last pleased glance towards the romantic couple of prostitute and new Casanova who wagging their tail like two happy dogs came out of the casino. He looked back at Eric, whom he had immediately recognized as another demon, demon like him.  
\- But all that human cares about is a hot dick for the night and a long, long amount of zeros in his bank account. She feels nothing for the man, nothing that isn't full of second interests. -   
On hearing him call that girl "human", Eric assumed that this implied that he was not such thing. That explained the surreal energy he gave off. He composed himself: -Are you Prince Asmodeus? -  
The man let out a dark chuckle in his throat, grinning: -The one and only ..- he confirmed.  
It was done, Eric thought, who proceeded to give him Beelzebub's summoning message.  
She could see the seriousness taking over his gaze as he spoke the name of the fly demon. Those two knew each other, perhaps even too well, considering their conflicting opinions about certain things. But this Eric did not know, nor did he care. He had to give a message, and he did.  
And so, even with Asmodeus it was a success.

And now it was Belphegor's turn.  
His clone had to go through intricate streets, take ominously swinging elevators, avoid being in the middle of the attention of some other shady demon in search of a fight, but in the end he managed to finish the trip successfully. When he was near his destination he reached a secretary demon, Picollus.  
\- Needing something? - the little demon barely reached the desk in front of her, she was such a dwarf.  
Eric tried to maintain a priority attitude, despite his rank: - I must give a message to your Lord. -  
Picollus twisted her colored mouth and narrowed her eyes glued to a CIRCUS magazine with the faces of the members of the famous band Kiss printed on the cover, practically a symbol of the high influence that the current of that Prince's court had brought in humans, especially at the level aesthetic: - Lord Belphegor is indisposed in this period, she is in her hibernation. I'll let you know when she wakes up, it's usually around February or March. I'll put you on the waiting list.. -  
Eric slammed his hands on the desk, making the secretary jump out of fright:- No! Now! This message is very important! - he began to take on a grieving tone: - If I come back without having woken up your Lord they straight up destroy me on the spot! I was sent by Beelzebub! -  
Picollus widened her icy eyes: - Oh, I understand .. - she proceeded to indicate a direction to her right: - Her room is that way. The big door you see at the end of the hallway. What you'll find in that room, she's there. I don't think Lord Belphegor will take it well .. but if it is so important .. It is Beelzebub who wants it, after all.. -  
Without even thanking, the servant demon took the path indicated by her. As soon as he was far enough away, the secretary demon picked up a handset of a corded telephone she had installed nearby, and called a member of the Pestilence court, to make sure it was true that the servant had been sent by the Lord of the Flies themselves. After hearing from the other end of the line the confirmation that it was all true, Picollus stiffened.  
What would ever happen that was so vital to the point that all the Princes must reunite in a meeting?  
He would have asked Belphegor for explanations at the end of assembly, if the latter was not yet at the mercy of the chronic sleep that usually slowed her down at that time.  
Meanwhile Eric was walking down the long dark corridor, feeling his feet repeatedly touch something damp and soft, scattered all over the floor, more and more frequent. He shivered: he did not want to imagine what it was, the pestilential smell was enough and advanced to make him sketch an unattractive idea in his head.  
But finally, there it was: the door to Belphegor's room. He had been given the order by Beelzebub to go and wake her up, and he was unsure of who he was going to encounter. According to some, she was an unpredictable demon. Seemingly serene and calm, in adverse moments she could reveal a sadistic and harmful nature, which combined with her playfulness resulted in a dictator who rules his court with the superficiality of a child, aggravated by a characteristic apathy towards everything. Eric did not know how the latter would react to an early awakening from her sleep.. But he had come a long way now, and if he came back he certainly would not have been spared. And so he entered. Incredibly, inside there was not what he would have expected to be in the main room of an infernal prince. No macabre decorations, the ceiling was not lavishly decorated, no signs of killing on the floor. There was not even the throne. It was an empty, cubic room, with damp sweating walls, illuminated by a chandelier on the ceiling, which with its pale light illuminated a closed toilet, lined with limestone and sewage residues. The servant demon looked around a little disoriented, and slowly approached that one thing present. He leaned down to look at it: she either was in there or he entered in the wrong room. The fact that a demon resided in a toilet might have been absurd to him, but in Hell this and more was to be expected, he knew it. With his knuckles he tried to knock on the lid. Nobody answered. He tried again more insistently, but nothing. Evidently the secretary had made a prank on him, which was not new, and in his mind he was already planning a hypothetical strategy to be able to reach his true destination in order to not return to his Lord empty-handed and suffer exemplary punishment. He jumped a meter back when, just as he was about to leave after an interval in the quiet, the toilet suddenly started to wobble, making a growing watery noise. A threatening gurgle began to echo inside it, gradually becoming louder. The toilet was suddenly uncovered, while liters and liters of water began to flow out. A couple of horns came out in the violent whirlpool of water. Then the head, and finally the whole body. There she was, standing upright, a circus figure, with a white face with a black star and a red star printed on her eyes. The sharp black tail curled on impulse.  
\- Lord .. Belphegor, am I right? -  
The clown demon did not reply, she was plucking out some earwax from her clogged pointy ears.  
She murmured in a sleepy tone:- What month are we in? -  
The other demon raised his eyebrows: - Pardon? -  
\- Ooh, do you speak French? Quel mois est-il? -  
The demon servant tried to decipher what he had just heard, but he did not understand French.  
\- SPEAK UP, THE DATE! - said the clown demon impatiently, clapping her hands.  
Eric jumped: - OH! Um .. January. January 15th 1976. Lord .. -  
\- Belphegor, yes .. - the clown demon anticipated him, thus confirming her identity. - Quite early.. That's why I felt my head ... fuzzy! - And the head rotated completely in a almost funny way, still quite grotesque. She then weighed it down on one side, and with a calm blunted of threat she said: - I hope there is a good reason for waking me up so early. -  
Eric took a moment, he barely contained the thrill of having in front of him a Prince of Hell whom he had heard very little of. In Eric's dark eyes, over her image there was an aura of fascinating mystery. Even if at times muffled by her clownish appearance.  
\- Yes, so .. apparently there are very big problems and I was sent here to get your attention .. A general meeting of the Princes is in sight .. -  
And while the servant demon continued to explain the reason for his arrival, losing himself in the details of the journey he had made to get there, Belphegor's eyes began to go in various directions, each one independently. From the emotionless expression, Belphegor began to seem mentally dozing. But she immediately recovered as soon as she heard the servant demon mention:  
\- Therefore, your presence is requested by Lord Beelzebub. -  
The clown demon's eyes brightened, and as she composed herself out of the blue she exclaimed:  
\- Bizzy! Oh, but you had to tell me it was zir! -  
Without warning she lifted her feet, adorned in curled-toed shoes and slipped out of the toilet completely. She hurried out of the room, followed by a bewildered Eric.  
\- What is the main reason for this meeting? -  
The demon servant tried to keep up his walk with the clown.  
\- I was not allowed to know more than a little info, but apparently the condition of the whole world is in danger. -

Something in the sunken and partially dormant brain of the circus prince began to flash.  
\- Then either you and the others will have to start organizing how to spend your last hours of existence or simply Bizzy is overreacting to the flowering of heavy metal bands devoted to evangelization. Nothing to worry about. But to them .. A hybrid of two examples of the influence of Hell and Heaven on humans: open heaven! -  
Her eyes then narrowed, after having granted an ephemeral look at the demon servant: -But have I already seen you somewhere, per chance? -  
Eric frowned every part he had on his face with an questioning look: -No .. not that I can recall. -  
The servant actually hardly remembered, might be also because of him being a clone of the real servant demon, but that Prince who was clumsily walking in front of him was the same one to whom the original Eric had to render service in ancient times, during a mission in the human world. But maybe if he had forgotten it, it may also be that Belphegor was a demon who liked to manifest herself in various forms, those few times she came into action. Or perhaps because people like Beelzebub almost did not deign to present the clown demon to others by her name, Belphegor simply contented herself with being called by the creative cover name she had given to herself for the occasion. Might be because of this that to Eric the clown demon seemed like a complete stranger.  
Belphegor, on the other hand, was, at that moment, too little neurologically active to be able to trace the image of the servant in her memory archives, if not for that otherwise she would have remembered Eric perfectly, but the latter would better have been grateful for the Prince's sleepy state, for he had done her a an inconvenient act, during her mission on Earth, a thing that if done with any other demon of her same rank would have left him pulverized.  
But all that matter ended trivially with Belphegor who, after hearing Eric's answer, blinked slowly, hinting at a half smile: - Oh, I guess I've have mistaken you for another .. -  
Demons who were passing by and saw Belphegor announced her reawakening to the others, and so her subjects started to appear front of her, reminding her of all the various things that she had left out and postponed until after her hibernation. Only Picollus seemed genuinely interested in her person rather than in her duties.  
\- How was the awakening, Lord Belphegor? - she asked, reaching out from the desk.  
But Belphegor did not deign any appropriate answers, perhaps only a few "yes yes, later, bye" and, impassive, proceeded on her way, with the assembly hall as the destination in her mind.


End file.
